I Am Still So Naïve; I Know

I Collect Men With Interesting Names.

My Mother Said The Cure For Thinking Too Much About Yourself Was Helping Somebody Who Was Worse Off Than You.

At This Rate, I'd Be Lucky If I Wrote A Page A Day. Then I Knew What The Problem Was. I Needed Experience. How Could I Write About Life When I'd Never Had A Love Affair Or A Baby Or Even Seen Anybody Die? A Girl I Knew Had Just Won A Prize For A Short Story About Her Adventures Among The Pygmies In Africa. How Could I Compete With That Sort Of Thing?

I Must Bridge The Gap Between Adolescent Glitter And Mature Glow.

I Have Been Holding A Dialogue With Myself And Girding Myself To Stand Fast Without Running.